


Clarke's Third Law

by Siria



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Challenge: Porn Battle VIII, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-09
Updated: 2009-06-09
Packaged: 2017-10-03 19:26:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke's Third Law states that any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic. As a statement, Rodney has always found it trite, vague and overly reliant on psychology</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clarke's Third Law

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle VIII

Clarke's Third Law states that any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic. As a statement, Rodney has always found it trite, vague and overly reliant on psychology—if there's a piece of technology that someone can't figure out, that doesn't mean that it's magic, merely that CalTech once more gave out a degree to some wilful incompetent who surely got assigned to the Atlantis expedition because of nepotism, corruption and bureaucratic incompetence rather than because they possessed any true scientific insight, and Rodney had often observed that stupid people need pretty lies to make their lack of comprehension more palatable to them.

So when John tosses a small chunk of pale blue crystal from one hand to another before thinking it on and sending it up to hover in the air, glowing faintly while it revolves, and leans down to wink at Maddy and tell her it's "magic", Rodney is forced to snort and refute the idiocy of that statement.

"There is nothing," he tells his niece, "magical about Colonel Sheppard's fingers."

Approximately two seconds after he speaks, his brain catches up with what his mouth has said, and the smirk on John's face makes his cheeks flush bright red. "You know what?" Rodney says to Maddy, "Maybe it's time we go find your Mom, huh? I think she's over-due for some maternal quality time."

"I wanna stay with you and Uncle John!"

"Yes, yes, and that is really... very touching, but I think your Mom and Uncle Radek have some brownies. And cookies. Why don't you go down into Lab C and ask them for some?"

&gt;Maddy's face lights up and she scuttles out of the lab and down the corridor. Rodney's not concerned about her finding her way there safely—she's following the little Ancient helpmate robot that Rodney set up for her when she first got to the city; it looks vaguely like a bright red Roomba—but he is kind of worried about what's going to happen to him when Radek finds out that Rodney sicced a child on him. He doesn't even want to think about what Jeannie will do to him.

"I probably shouldn't have done that," he says faintly, staring at the door as it slides closed.

"Eh," John says. "You couldn't help it."

Rodney looks over at him and squints. It being John's day off, and John being John, he's lounging in a lab chair in a t-shirt that's at least one size too small for him, and his hair is frankly ludicrous. "_What_?" He always gets suspicious when John tries to sound enigmatic.

John does a clumsy version of jazz hands. "Magic fingers. You were compelled."

"Oh my god," Rodney says, and puts his head in his hands. "I am sleeping with the biggest dork in this galaxy."

"Hey!" John says, spinning around in his chair; if anyone were to look around the door now, Rodney doesn't think they'd realise that the twirling idiot is the 42-year-old decorated commander of a military base. "Last night, it's not like we were doing that much sl—"

"Do not finish that sentence," Rodney says solemnly, "if you ever want to have an orgasm again."

"Well," John says, a look of mock-concentration on his face, "I do _like_ orgasms."

"Yes," Rodney says, and looks sadly at the theorem he's been scratching out on a pad of paper; it's still his preferred method of working, and he'd been making some progress before Maddy and John came into the room looking for something 'cool', but Rodney doubts he'll get anything more done today. "Yes, I had noticed that."

"Hey," John says. "Rodney?"

"Yes?" Rodney says, and looks up at the ceiling. He may be a genius who's long over-due his Nobel Prize, but there are times when even he is at a loss to know what to do with a bored John Sheppard. If this is another attempt to get Rodney to 'pull his finger', Rodney will not be responsible for his actions.

"I _really_ like orgasms," John says, and grins, and lets his legs fall open a little.

Rodney narrows his eyes. "You are _such_ a cliché."

"_Rodney_."

"Okay, okay, okay. If I let you blow me, will you shut up and let me get back to work?"

"How about you blow me?" The smirk on John's face is near feral. "I'm already going commando."

"You were wearing no underwear while in the same room as my niece?!"

"_McKay_."

"Fine, fine." Rodney goes across the room and kneels in front of John, huffing as he undoes the drawstring of John's trackpants and pushes them down his hips. "But I would just like to register my protest against being used in such a shameless way on a flooring surface that is not good for either of my patellae."

"Protest duly noted," John says magnanimously, before waving a hand at his cock, which is already hard and thick. "Have at it."

Rodney would complain vociferously about how John can be, you know, an _incredible_ jackass, but it's hard to make an appropriately multisyllabic response when he's got John's dick in his mouth. Like every time they've done this, John is a little bit pushy and a little bit lazy, lifting his hips up just enough to fuck Rodney's mouth but panting out instructions for everything else—_faster, slower, yeah like that, like, yeah, yeah, suck my balls_—and really, Rodney didn't take this much direction from his first PhD supervisor.

"Oh my god," he says, pulling off; his voice is already a little hoarse. "What are you trying to do, choreograph this? Shut up and let me suck you off already!"

"Rodney," John whines. "Come on, I'm really close."

Rodney sneers at him. "What happened to your magic fingers? You should be able to bring yourself off."

"I should be able to come in your _eye_, is what I should be able to do," John grumbles.

Rodney wrinkles his nose. "That is both unsanitary and unhygienic and might well lead to temporary blindness."

"All the best stuff does," John says, shrugging.

"Sadly true," Rodney says, a little mournfully. He points a finger at John and says, "You're just lucky I love you, I hope you realise that," before bending to take John into his mouth again; and if John doesn't answer him, if his breath is hitching strangely, then his fingers still come to rest on the nape of Rodney's neck, ruffling the fine hairs there, working a strange kind of magic that's indistinguishable from the beat of Rodney's heart.


End file.
